


Around the Bend

by Parivash007



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sleep Deprivation, Torture, Waterboarding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 01:49:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3156443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parivash007/pseuds/Parivash007
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft is kidnapped after a diplomatic meeting half a world away, Sherlock is uninterested, Anthea is angry, and Mycroft is supposed to be on vacation.  It's up to Greg Lestrade, Anthea, and a Will Wygens to figure out what Mycroft's last cryptic text means, and to come to his rescue.  Can Greg, Anthea, and Will get to him before he's damaged beyond repair?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nivenskoye Dreams

Mycroft bit back a heavy sigh, bored out of his mind. He smiled politely as the Pashto washed around him and he cataloged the Trivial Pursuit archive in his Mind Library.  
“Of course not, Prime Minister, the continued attacks against villages must be curtailed,” he continued in fluent Pashto internally wondering if the 2015 Academy Award votes had been counted yet. He made a note to himself to check, a sizeable sum was on the line at the office for the category of best short film. He grinned as he thought of Anthea’s glee at winning for the fifth year in a row. He absently wondered what she’d do with the money, new shoes perhaps?  
Mycroft bit back a sigh as the Minister of Defence spat a vitriolic threat at the Minister of the Interior. “Gentlemen, the continued stability of the political regime in this country is of continued interest to the United Kingdom, as such please put such petty squabbles aside.”  
The Ministers glared at him but went silent under his stoic glare. Mycroft barely managed to abstain from rolling his eyes. His phone vibrated softly in his jacket pocket. He glanced at the screen warning bells pealing though his head.  
Do you know why your brother would be at RAF Croughton? GL  
Mycroft bit back an expletive, “I’m terribly sorry gentlemen, but the necessity of irrigation in this region makes it imperative that all construction is put on neutral ground to assure equal access.”  
 _No idea. Get him away. Arrest if you must. MH_  
 _I’ll do my best. GL_  
 _He’s got higher security clearance than I do. GL_  
 _Unfortunately. But, not high enough to be there. MH_  
 _They let him in. Without thought. GL_  
 _Is JW with him? MH_  
 _Yes. GL_  
Mycroft sighed. John Watson was an interesting man, cuddly jumpers on one side and a top-secret security clearance with a sniper rifle on the other. Mycroft groaned internally, “of course, Minister, the access to medical care is desperately needed especially in the outer areas of the country where immediate health care is not available.”  
 _It’s JW’s security clearance. TS. MH_  
 _Seriously? GL_  
 _I think I owe him a drink. GL_  
Mycroft stood as the meeting wound down, stretching and glad for the reprieve. He glanced at his watch noting absently that he had merely thirty-two minutes to make it to the private airstrip where his plane was waiting. Mycroft glanced at the incoming text and cleared his throat as he adroitly maneuvered his way through the diplomats chatting with each in their natural language, the migraine he usually got from code-switching beginning to rattle the base of his skull.  
Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief as he exited the top-secret facility glancing towards the moon, which was bright in a sky untouched by unnatural lights. The stars glinted brightly above him and he pondered his significance for a moment before his phone vibrated again.  
 _I got them. S wanted to test nuke. GL_  
 _JW drugged? MH_  
 _Who knows? GL_  
 _Thank you. Send OT reqs to office. Will sign. MH_  
 _Nah, I got him without too much trouble. Fun. ☺ GL_  
Mycroft rolled his eyes, fun indeed. If only the furor resulting in from a stolen identification card was ‘fun’ to fix. He slid silently into the back of the black car with diplomatic plates and sighing leaned his head back against the head rest, his head pounding with fury now. Mycroft sighed and reached into a compartment under the seat pulling out a bottle of pain killers, shaking two into his palm and swallowing them dry with a grimace. He sighed deeply and tried to sleep for the remainder of the drive.  
The car pulled into the air field, a small Lear jet waiting on the tarmac. Anthea was waiting at the bottom of the steps with Mycroft’s briefcase. He smiled tiredly as he saw her. “Any news?”  
Anthea chuckled softly aware of the migraine from the tension in his forehead, “not yet, sounds like he was trying to run an experiment. Not sure why Watson used his security clearance to get him into the base though. Maybe he was drugged?”  
Mycroft scoffed, smiling tightly, “wouldn’t be the first time.”  
Anthea shrugged following Mycroft up the stairs of the small plane. Mycroft sat in the closest chair, Anthea glancing at him with a calculating expression on his face. She silently poured three fingers of whiskey into a crystal tumbler and placed it at Mycroft’s elbow.  
“Drink it, you’re out of the office for another 48 hours, you look like you need it.”  
Mycroft toasted her with the glass, his eyes shut tightly as he took a small sip of the whiskey. Anthea sighed softly and poured herself a small measure before strapping herself into the seat for the long flight back to London.  
Neither Mycroft nor Anthea noticed when the plane turned sharply east towards Moscow three hours into their flight. And, neither of them noticed when the plane landed on the deserted Nivenskoye airstrip and Mycroft was roughly manhandled off the plane, Anthea being left alone and flown towards London alone.  
Mycroft became aware of his predicament when he awoke in the pitch black space of an echoing bunker with no lights. He checked his pockets and sent a silent prayer of thanks to whoever was listening when he found his still functioning cellphone.  
 _911\. MH_  
 _Boring. Eat cake. SH_  
 _Bunker. Russian. Cold. Dark. MH_  
 _I’m not interested. SH_  
Mycroft bit back an expletive, though he couldn’t see, Anthea was likely with him and just as helpless.  
 _911\. MH_  
 _What’s wrong? GL_  
 _Bunker. Euaaian. Vp;d. dqvj._  
 _Come again? GL_

Lestrade’s forehead creased at Mycroft’s cryptic text. He frowned at it, he’d never seen autocorrect fail this badly before. He shrugged and glanced at his phone one more time before Anderson’s ear splitting shout echoed from the crime scene. Sherlock was here then. Greg slipped his phone in his pocket and hurried towards John and Sherlock having no way of knowing that 3,000 miles away Mycroft Holmes was in a vicious fight for his life.


	2. Behind the Iron Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is kidnapped after a diplomatic meeting half a world away, Sherlock is uninterested, Anthea is unaware, and Mycroft is supposed to be on vacation. It's up to Greg Lestrade to figure out what Mycroft's last cryptic text means, and to come to his rescue. Can Greg get to him before he's damaged beyond repair?

Sherlock Holmes melted onto the couch his suit-clad figure reclining with the insouciance of a model. John Watson rolled his eyes and turned into the kitchen humming tunelessly as he made tea. He carried two cups of tea into the living room and put one on the table next to Sherlock’s head.  
“Drink it.”   
Sherlock waved him away with the pinky finger of his left hand, which was steepled underneath his chin. John rolled his eyes and picked up a book from the side table opening it to the dog-eared page. His phone pinged and he frowned looking at Sherlock.  
“07546 388539, isn’t that Mycroft?” John glanced at the screen frowning when he saw the text message. He read it out loud “WAWGPERWHF, AM. MGIA 9633 933002TP1966. N85-B92. What the hell does that mean?”  
Sherlock didn’t answer, locked in his memory palace. The code didn’t phase him until he heard the end, “N85-B92? John give me your phone.”  
John handed Sherlock his phone and Sherlock glanced at the screen then stared into space as he computed the message. He reached for a piece of paper and handed it to John. “Nivenskoye, RU. Lego 9633 933002MH1966. E85-A92. It’s a code.”  
John glanced at it, “what’s Nivenskoye?”  
Sherlock shrugged, “Russian air force base. Abandoned in 2007.”  
“What about lego 9663?”  
Sherlock shrugged, “no idea. A case that he’s too proud to ask for help with. Boring, forward it to Lestrade”  
John frowned then forwarded the text to Lestrade. He picked up his book and resumed reading, the text disregarded in favor of fiction.

Three thousand kilometers to the east Mycroft’s phone bounced off the concrete wall and shattered into a thousand pieces when the boot of a guard kicked him so hard his ribs broke with an audible crack.  
Mycroft bit back a groan as a second guard leisurely strolled into the room eyeing him with malicious intent, the guard grinned at Mycroft’s prone form and knelt next to him, grabbing him by the hair he whispered to him in Russian, “you have something we want.”  
Mycroft looked at the bearded man silently gauging his ability to stay silent versus the prudence of speaking.  
The man grinned nastily and dropped Mycroft, hard, on the concrete floor. He grunted as his shoulder hit the rough surface of the floor sending agony through his back aggravating the injury Sherlock gave him the last time he was high. Mycroft lay on the floor ignoring the man standing over him. It was a mistake as the man’s booted foot crashed down onto Mycroft’s hand, crushing the fragile metacarpals in his fingers.   
A single scream echoed through the empty halls then faded into nothingness as a dripping faucet in the distance took over the accompaniment of the blows landing in the room behind the iron door.

Greg yawned, what was supposed to be an open and closed domestic dispute dragging into the early hours of the morning. Each participant swore they were not at fault and both of them sported similar injuries. At this point Greg was so tired of their lies he was tempted to arrest them both. He glanced at the screen of his phone as a text message from John popped up on the screen.  
 _Nivenskoye, RU. Lego 9633 933002MH1966. E85-A92._  
 _No idea what it means, Nivenskoye=air force base. Russian. JW_  
Greg looked at the text.  
 _What am I supposed to do with it? GL_  
 _No idea. Might be a case. JW_  
 _What about SH? GL_  
 _Not interested. JW_  
Greg sighed. He glanced up as two sleek black cars pulled to the scene hoping that something was going to happen that would make his evening easier. He was shocked as Anthea stepped out of the car with three threatening men in suits and pointed at him. The biggest man hurried towards Greg and grabbed him, forcing him towards the black car. Donovan gaped and pulled her gun, shrieking when a single gunshot echoed off the buildings sending the gun into the air, spinning like a top. Greg grunted as he was slammed against he hood of the black car, handcuffed, and thrown into the backseat. Anthea climbed in after him and slammed the doors the three suited men entered the second car and glided away from the crime scene, Donovan staring after them in shock.

Anthea glanced at Greg who was on the floor of the car; she leaned down and released the quick release on the handcuffs.  
“I’m pretty sure real hand cuffs don’t do that,” Greg muttered.  
Anthea rolled her eyes and studied him silently. “What did the text say?”  
“What text,” Greg said snarkily, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
Anthea sighed, “you got the last text from Mycroft’s phone. It was active until you got that text and then we lost the signal. That text could be our only clue to finding him.”  
“I didn’t get the text.” Greg shrugged as Anthea glared at him, “John got it, and he forwarded it to me.” Greg tapped at his phone for a minute then handed it to Anthea. She glanced at the screen.  
“E85-A92. That’s your badge number.” Anthea studied Greg for a minute then handed his phone back to him drawing a handgun from her purse and innocently placing it on her lap. “Please, get off the floor.”  
Greg slowly moved from the floor to the seat, eyes wide, and waited with baited breath.  
“Can you tell me, Lestrade, why Mycroft Holmes, the man with the minor position in the British government sent you his user name and password to the national security databases?”  
“He sent it to John. I have no idea why he’d send it to me. I’m just a DI. I have nothing to do with national security unless you commandeer the Met.” Greg sighed softly. “Look, I’ll do whatever you want, but could you put the gun away? It’s been a long day, the last thing I want is to get shot.”  
Anthea chuckled softly and put the gun into her bag thumbing on the safety. She stared intently and silent at Greg until he cleared his throat uncomfortably and turned to stare out the window.

A stinging shower of icy water thrown over him rudely awakened Mycroft. The guard laughed maliciously as the water dripped from Mycroft’s bruised and swollen face onto the floor. He threw a crust of bread onto the floor in front of him and turned to leave calling over his shoulder in Russian, “breakfast is served, your highness.”  
Mycroft dragged himself to the wall pulling himself up and slumping against it, his hair dripping down his neck. He picked up the bread and picked at the edge of it dropping it to the floor as he began to shake. He wrapped his arms around his middle and pulled his knees to his chest, groaning as he jostled his broken ribs. He grunted and breathily said into the silence, “any time, Sherlock.”

Greg was gently awakened as the car pulled into a nondescript underground parking facility. Anthea gestured for him to get out and the three huge men in black from the crime scene instantly surrounded him. Greg followed them wordlessly as they entered the elevator. Anthea motioned to the men when they reached the first floor, the exited leaving Anthea and Greg alone in the elevator. Anthea leaned towards Greg and softly whispered, “when we get to the 16th floor, enter the password. When the door opens, walk with me to the third door on the left like you’re supposed to be there. Once we’re in Mycroft’s office we’ll figure out what he wanted you to see.”  
Greg sighed and shook his head, “fine, but he sent the message to John, not me.”  
Anthea rolled her eyes, “yes, but it was with your badge number. He knows John’s military ID number like he knows your badge number, if he would have wanted it sent to John he wouldn’t have used your badge number.”  
The elevator stopped and Greg punched the number into the small number pad on the elevator wall. The door slid open to a silent hallway, Anthea walked out and Greg followed her silently. She opened the door and ushered Greg into an opulent but understated office, then closing the door behind herself she pressed the palm of her hand to the touchscreen outside Mycroft’s inner office. The touchscreen scanned her palm print but flashed red.  
“We’re being locked out. Put your palm on the touchscreen.” Greg paused and looked at Anthea, “do it now!”  
Greg slammed his hand onto the touchscreen and the screen flashed green. The door unlocked and Anthea hurried in, pulling Greg behind her. She threw the door closed and it locked, she sighed as someone pounded on the door and shouted through it, “you have five minutes. If you come out you will not be prosecuted for treason.”  
“Five minutes show me the text.” Anthea took Greg’s phone and fingers flying across the keyboard she opened file trees at an incredible pace. Finally the document opened and the schematics for a missile silo slowly materialized.  
“Bloody Bruce Partington. Damn it!” Anthea took a memory stick out of the top desk drawer and shoved it into the port on the computer tower. She hit a series of buttons and a dialog window popped up indicating the copy rate to the memory stick. The timer counted down from three minutes and thirty seconds. Anthea glanced at Greg, “when this is finished copying we’re going to leave. I want you to go to your house and stay there until I get to you. We need supplies. We don’t have a lot of time. I’m going to send an operative to keep an eye on the area. You might recognize him, you might not. Until we see what’s on this flash drive aside from the Partington plans we need to be careful.”  
Greg nodded thinking of the stack of paperwork on his desk nearly wishing something as simple as a DD5 was all he had to do. “Fine, I’ll stay there, any idea how long this is going to take?”  
Anthea looked at him emotionlessly, “as long as it takes.”

Three thousand kilometers away a cacophony of sound was coming from behind the iron door. The men exited the room not bothering to lock it leaving nothing but silence and dripping water behind them. Inside the room with the iron door Mycroft curled into himself desperately hoping that someone would come for him. He slowly dragged himself to the corner where the pieces of his phone lay crushed on the floor and painstakingly began examining them for usefulness. He sighed and sat back against the wall in the barren room glancing out the barred window into the darkness staring at stars and contemplating his place in the universe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going to leave it E for the moment. If you find any mistakes they are mine, and mine alone. Do leave a comment if you would, I'm still wondering if this is worth continuing or not. I'm also open to suggestion and would be happy to hear yours!


	3. Think on Your Sins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Mycroft's time quickly running out Greg has to convince the powers that be to let him help in the rescue operation. After some convincing Greg realizes that he might be in over his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for waiting on me, my life has recently become insane. I won't abandon this, but I can't promise updates will be quick. It's entirely dependent on my studio art classes and the amount of homework I have.
> 
> I'd love to hear what you think and if you're enjoying this please let me know. Not gonna lie, Kudos and reviews are like a 7% solution to a writer... (I know it's a weak reference, it's late and I'm tired...)
> 
> Enjoy!

Around the Bend 3

The battery indicator light on the cell phone began to flash. Mycroft grinned to himself, success! He quickly flipped the switch to the off position attempting to save the battery as the door behind him opened. He slid the phone into a chink in the wall and glanced over his battered shoulder towards his captors.

  
“You tell us what we need to know, then you go home,” the arrogant man said in Russian, his smug smile grating on Mycroft’s nerves. “I know you speak Russian, “ he continued in English, “but, if you can’t remember, it’s ok. I forgive you.”

  
Mycroft stared at the man calculating his weak points, at full strength he would have taken the man rather easily, but after several days in a cell with limited food and water, along with the full body torture he was too exhausted to do more than stare.

  
“You have plans we need.” The man continued casually as Mycroft bit back a sigh. The sigh turned into a yelp as the man’s foot encased in a heavy boot slammed into his cracked ribs, breaking them completely. “You will help or like my brother, you will die, hanged. The same way you hanged mine.”

  
Mycroft didn’t answer, the agony flooding through his chest from the kick to his ribs stealing any answer he might have had. The man grabbed his hair and pulled him to his knees brutally, “Barry Berwick, Mr. Holmes. Think on your sins.”

  
The man shoved Mycroft to the ground roughly and stomped out of the room slamming the iron door shut with a resounding clang. Mycroft sighed and gingerly reached for the phone flipping the on switch. The phone beeped softly once a minute as Mycroft lay on his back staring at the ceiling slowly drifting to a troubled sleep.

  
Three thousand kilometers to the west Greg glanced at his phone groaning as another garbled text came in. He had been getting the same garbled texts for the last hour as he waited for Anthea. He sighed and looked at it again, 54.5617G20.6033A, then he frowned and grabbed his laptop. Opening a search he typed the string of information into the box. He groaned as a million sites about programming popped up. Deleting it and starting over he typed it in again adding arbitrary spaces on each side of the letters, 54.5617 G 20.6033 A. He cursed as nothing worth looking at came up. Deciding to try his luck he switched the G and A for N and E whooping as a list of websites popped up in Russian, he glanced through them surprised that his Russian wasn’t as rusty as he thought.

  
Greg’s head snapped up, as there was a knock on the door. HE looked out the peephole and frowned as he saw Anthea carrying a duffel bag and accompanied by a tall thin man with a three-day scruff and wild hair in a sharp suit. He opened the door and Anthea strode in followed by the suited man who offered Greg his hand.

  
“Will Wygeyn, pleasure.” Greg shook his hand and frowned.

  
“Didn’t I arrest you for dealing six months ago?”

  
Will grinned, “yeah, you never wondered where I’d got to then?

  
Greg stared at him nonplussed, “but, what?”

  
Anthea looked up and rolled her eyes, “MI5, Sherlock watch.”

  
Greg laughed aloud, “he’s such a threat to national security that he’s got his own MI5 detail?”

  
Will shrugged, “yeah, and he has no idea how close we are to him.”

  
Greg motioned to the living room, Will sat in one of the chairs and Greg took the other leaving Anthea on the couch with a computer setup spread out across the coffee table.

  
“We need to know where he is. The plane lost contact with the tower somewhere over Minsk and the best intelligence we have indicates the air force base from the text has been abandoned for over a decade.” Anthea glanced at Greg who growled as another text popped up on his phone.

  
“I’m thinking Mycroft’s phone is working again in some fashion,” he handed his phone to Anthea as it pinged again, “these texts have been coming in for the last few hours, always the same text, at the minute. I Googled it and found out it’s the coordinates for the base. Someone is trying to contact us.”

  
Anthea smiled, “I always knew he was better with his cell phone than he told me.”

  
Will grinned, “I swear to you that man breaks more phones that Sherlock, John, and Gibbs combined.”

  
Lestrade grinned and picked up a folder from the table, Anthea grabbed it out of his hands and glared at him. “Before you touch anything, before you read anything, before you say anything, know this. This is so high above your security clearance if you say anything to anyone about this, the length of your prison term will outlast the length of your marriage. Do you understand?”

  
Greg held his hand up and nodded, “yeah, I get it. Look, I’m not sure why he chose to send that text, but if I can help I will.”

  
Anthea nodded and handed him a stack of files, “you’re not going to be able to read some of these, but you’ll sort it out.”

  
Greg flipped the first folder open squinting at the Russian and sighing paging through the documents. “What are we looking for? I can’t imagine why Russian paramilitary groups are important.”

  
Will glanced at Anthea who was staring at Greg in shock, “she’s not usually shocked. It’s good for her.”

  
Anthea glowered at Will then turned to Greg. “How do you know Russian?”

  
Greg shrugged, “my grandparents moved to France before the fall. I always spoke Russian with them, my mum married a Russian man and we always spoke Russian at home. I had to learn French and English in school. After Dad died Mum and I moved to the UK.”

  
Will glanced at Anthea, as her face hardened, “you’re not a British citizen?”

Greg shrugged, “I am now, why?”

“Longer than your marriage.” Anthea motioned to the folder and Greg handed it her, “this military group has been looking to score something like the missile system plans for a long time. How they managed to get Mycroft is beyond me, especially since I was there as well. It doesn’t make sense.”

  
Will sighed, “since when has the RNU been this far west?”

  
Greg glanced at his phone again as the message pinged in. “Could it be a mistake?” Anthea gave him a death glare and Will frowned meaning to speak, but Greg cut him off, “I know he’s important and all, but isn’t Sherlock the one with eastern European enemies?”

  
Anthea laughed caustically, “seriously? You think they wanted Sherlock and just happened to get the most powerful man in the UK?”

  
Greg’s eyebrows raised, “not a minor position in the British Government then?”

  
“Not really, no. You ever seen James Bond?” Anthea grinned as Greg nodded.

  
“M?”

  
Anthea shook her head, “nah, boss’ boss.”

  
Greg’s eyebrows nearly touched his hairline as he pondered the consequences, “well, then we should get him back.”

  
Will grinned and poked Anthea in the shoulder, “I like him.”

  
Anthea rolled her eyes and glanced at Will as his phone went off playing the theme from “Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego”, “duty calls.”

  
Greg snorted, then burst into laughter, “the hell was that?”

  
Will shrugged and grinned at Greg, “sometimes it’s the only thing that makes that insane bastard bearable.”

  
Greg grinned as Will hurried towards the door ducking a ball of wadded up paper Anthea threw at his head, “hang up your suit this time, you slob! I’m not explaining to your boss why you look like a hobo at the next briefing!”

  
Will laughed and pounded down the steps. Greg glanced at Anthea and wisely kept his mouth shut as she pulled out a small Beretta and laid it on the edge of the table.

Across town…

John ushered Wiggins into the living room. Sherlock glared at him from his position upside down on the couch, his head hanging over the edge.

  
“You’re late.” John rolled his eyes and Wiggins coughed in shock as Sherlock flipped backwards off the couch landing on his feet.

  
John scoffed and entered the kitchen muttering, “I swear to God he spends his free time trying to figure out how to do shit like that.”

  
Will bit back a grin and glanced at Sherlock as he silently deduced him. “You were wearing a suit. Where did you get a suit?”

  
Will sighed. “Court.”

  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

  
“Dealing. Couldn’t prove nothin’.”

  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, “what news do you have?”

  
Wiggins slumped into John’s chair as John walked into the room. John sighed and closed his eyes in what looked to be a prayer.

  
“Nothing. But, your brother hasn’t been doing nothing lately. He’s gone missing.”

  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, “they must have refused his request for a pay raise.”

  
Wiggins sat forward, “what you mean?”

  
“They refused to pay him in cake and he’s sulking. Pity, his diet was going so swimmingly.” Sherlock rolled his eyes with a huff and picking up a dart from the desk threw it at the wall where it stuck into the wall and vibrated from its hole in a picture of a black man with a dog.

  
Wiggins glanced covertly at John gauging his level of irritation grimacing when he saw the dark look in his eyes. Wiggins stood and slouched towards the door, Sherlock’s head snapped up as Wiggins got to the door.

  
“Where are you going? We have work to do.”

  
Wiggins shrugged and tried not to look too shady, “got somewhere ta be, ta.” Wiggins hurried out the door and down the stairs pulling out his cell phone as he hit the sidewalk at a brisk walk.

  
Sherlock looked out the window watching Wiggins’ retreat with narrowed eyes and flopped backwards over the back of the couch causing John to spill his tea down the front of his beige cardigan. John closed his eyes and sighed deeply before standing and going to the kitchen where there was a muted thump as the cup went into the sink. The kitchen door closed and Sherlock glanced sharply towards it.

  
“Where are you going? What if there’s a case?”

  
John’s voice floated up from the stairwell, “out! Just out! We’re out of milk again!”

  
Sherlock huffed and put his hands under, perhaps above would be a better word, his chin thinking. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply sinking into his mind palace.

Meanwhile…

Greg sighed and stretched, his back popping as his door flew open, Will dressed as Wiggins marched in phone in hand, “what’s up, you found something?”

  
Anthea glanced at his ratty clothes and growled, “we found him, he’s in the base at Nivenskoye. I traced the signal from his cell phone. It’s operating in short bursts, hopefully he’s still there and it isn’t just the phone.”

  
Greg leaned forward and studied the computer screen, Anthea glanced at Will. “I think we can handle it from here DI Lestrade.”

  
Greg sat back and studied the two agents he pursed his lips and grinned, “fine, answer me one question. как вы планируете это сделать” Greg bit back a smile as Anthea glared at him.

  
“Проникновение и восстановление являются нашей специализацией,” Anthea answered smugly, a superior smile gracing her features. It melted off her face as Greg laughed until he cried.

“Infiltration and recovery may be your specialty but it’s obvious that Russian isn’t. Look, I might not have your training but linguistically it makes sense to use me if you need to. My accent is far more realistic than yours because I’ve used it. Russian isn’t a language you can fake, it takes immersion.” Greg glanced at Will who was clearly wavering then to Anthea who was still glaring at him.

  
“Then what do you suggest?”

  
Greg sighed, “get me into the base and I’ll get him out. I did some research and Nivenskoye is only about three kilometers away from Kaliningrad. It’s a popular tourist site, so if he’s there he’s going to be well hidden and they won’t keep him there for long. We’d need to get in and out as quickly and silently as possible.”

  
Anthea sighs and glances at Will, “what do you think?”

  
Will shrugs, “put him through the gauntlet, he survives with minimal injuries and we trust him to get Holmes out. He doesn’t we go to plan B.”

  
Anthea grinned, a frighteningly shark-like grin, “I like it.”

  
Greg grimaced and glanced between the two, “the gauntlet?”

  
Anthea snapped the lap top shut, “there will be a car waiting at 6am. You’re officially going to be loaned out to GCHQ for the duration, your boss will approve it purely because he won’t have any idea what you’re doing.” Anthea slid the files and laptop into her bag and packed the Beretta into one of the pockets. She stood and escorted Will to door glancing over her shoulder as she left, “Don’t be late.”  
Greg sighed deeply and slumped back into his chair, “well, hell.”

Three thousand miles away Mycroft awoke with a start as water flooded his mouth. He tried to twist away from the feeling he was drowning beginning to panic as he found his arms and legs restrained. The sopping cloth was pulled away from his mouth and he coughed, groaning as each cough sent pain ripping through his broken ribs and his tormented body.

His captor grinned as the cloth was replaced then soaked with water drowning out Mycroft’s garbled pleas for them to stop. The men continued slowly pouring water over his face giving him seconds to breathe sporadically.

After what seemed an indeterminable amount of time the men holding his arms and legs let him go and the room emptied. Mycroft exhaustedly pulled the cloth from his face and rolled to his side, groaning in agony as his broken ribs shifted with a grinding sound.

He stared listlessly towards the crevice where his phone was hidden the red light flashing steadily as his energy ebbed and he welcomed the silent blackness of unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> как вы планируете это сделать- How do you plan to do it?
> 
> Проникновение и восстановление являются нашей специализацией- Infiltration and recovery are our specalties.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it, again kudos and reviews are like a 7% solution to writers, please leave one so I don't start to shake.... (It'll also make me write faster...)
> 
> I wish I could say it gets easier for Mycroft in the near future, but no one actually wants that, do they? (I mean, really?)


	4. The Gauntlet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg finds himself in a harrowing situation, he expects the surveillance, he expects the duct tape, and he expects the thrill of the chase, but he doesn't expect the Prime Minister and he certainly doesn't expect the Queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't forget you! I swear! This semester has been kicking my backside and taking all my time. (Sigh) BUT!!!! It's almost over (only 3 more weeks) Then I hope to get onto a more quick posting schedule. I hope you enjoy this, I certainly had fun writing it...

Greg awoke with a start and a muffled grunt. He opened his eyes and frowned when the quality of light didn’t change. He reached towards his face and stopped still as his hands bound with duct tape bumped against his stomach. Greg stilled his initial instincts to fight back, listening to the room. To his right there was the sound of water dripping onto the floor, the echoing plops giving him an idea about the space. Greg wiggled his feet and was not surprised when he found they were taped to the chair he was sitting on. Greg sighed, the silence in the room broken only by the drips he heard before and a small whirring sound like a ventilation fan.  
Greg’s brain screamed at him to do something but he took a deep breath and methodically went through his training remembering a vague memory of escaping duct tape. 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Hurry up, Graham!” Sherlock shouted as he sprinted out of the door of the abandoned warehouse. Greg grunted as he pulled himself to his feet, hands bound by duct tape and a staggering migraine caused by the cricket bat to the back of his head. He pushed his hands out in front of him and drove his elbows back at hip level tearing the duct tape with the sudden torsion. He slowly peeled the tape from his wrists swearing as it ripped the hair from the back of his arms.

Greg sighed and hurried towards the door ducking as Sherlock stumbled through, his arms thrown out to catch himself on the door-frame before the assailant followed him in the door. There was a loud ‘crack’ and the assailant fell, John Watson standing behind him; John grinned sheepishly as he quickly attempted to hide the gun that was the worst kept secret at the Yard.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Greg took a deep breath and drove his elbows towards his hip, the sound of tearing duct tape one of the sweetest he’d ever heard. He quickly reached up and pulled the black hood from his head and surveyed the room. It was lit from sunlight shining though a ventilator housing and empty aside from the chair he was strapped to. Greg reached down and untaped his ankles from the chair. He stood and turned, seeing no one behind him. He glanced towards his wrist and sighed when he realized his watch was missing. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and grinned when he found his keys. Attached was a small flash light and a tube of chapstick. Greg grinned as he found the case for his knife still attached to his belt. As he found that he wasn’t as disadvantaged as he initially thought he scanned the room for a way to get out. There was a door on the north wall and he crept towards it keeping his footsteps as silent as humanly possible.  
Greg pulled the door open and bit back a curse as a hail of gunfire rained down at the doorstep. He slammed the door shut and groaned.  
“What the hell am I supposed to be doing? Escaping or waiting for someone to get me?” Greg sighed, if it was called the gauntlet, probably escaping.  
Greg studied the room and found that there was an air return vent that was invisible from the outside. He glanced up towards the ceiling and noticed a blinking red light. Greg grinned and shimmied up a ladder towards the small catwalk near the ceiling. He grabbed the blinking red light and pulled, he was rewarded with a tiny camera the size of a quarter. He dropped it, shimmied down the ladder and crushed it under the heel of his boot.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Three stories below Anthea swore and Will laughed out loud as the surveillance camera went snowy.  
“Get the second camera up and running, you have thirty seconds or I’ll fire you!” Anthea raged at the incompetent agents sitting around the war room. They started typing rapidly attempting to bring the secondary camera up but as the seconds ticked by, Anthea growled at them as the screen remained blank.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Back at the side of the ventilation shaft Greg had his pocket-knife out with the screwdriver attachment rapidly taking the screws out of the housing for the ventilation shaft. He quickly took the screws from the bottom then started up one side determined to bend the vent cover to get into the shaft. As he took the last screw out a whirring sound from behind him made him swear as he ducked into the shaft at the last second, the mesh of the cover hiding him from view. Three stories below Anthea groaned and Will shrieked with laughter as the screens flared to light showing the room empty with Greg Lestrade nowhere to be seen.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Greg looked down the shaft relieved to see that it evened out and proceeded into the building about twenty feet below him. He reached across and found he could brace his feet against the far side of the shaft and his back against the wall he was sitting on. Greg slowly braced his feet against the far side and slowly shifted himself towards the bottom of the shaft. He made it without too much trouble and slowly stepped onto the shaft. The ductwork gave a groan underneath him and Greg swore softly. He slowly stretched himself out distributing his weight over the ductwork and it groaned again but didn’t shift. Greg sighed, relieved, and reached into his pocket pulling out the tube of chapstick. He pulled the cap off and grinned pulling a tiny light stick out of the tube and pulling the ribbon from the outside. He pulled the ribbon off and wrapped it around the bobby pin that had held it in place shoving it back inside the chapstick tube. He cracked the light stick and gingerly shook it until it illuminated the air duct around him. Greg put it in between his teeth and slowly started inching his way forward.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Three thousand miles away Mycroft lay on the floor of his cell his eyes staring unseeingly towards the door. His captors did not come for him that day. He was grateful but distrusting. He glanced at the phone that was still steadily flashing and closed his eyes.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Anthea held up a fist then kicked the door in. She looked around the room seeing the chair and the remnants of duct tape on the floor in the middle. Will grinned holstering his gun as she turned and swept out of the room calling for a tactical retreat and praying that no one figured out there was a man lost in the duct work of the building.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Greg grinned as the ductwork stretched out in front of him. The tiny glowstick shown brightly in the darkness and he stopped and glanced through the vent into the room below. Anthea was pacing angrily and Will was sitting on a table behind her biting back a grin. Greg knew he couldn’t take the chance that getting from the roof would be enough. He decided to press on and eventually stopped again at a fork in the duct. He pondered for a second and realized that he didn’t have any idea which way to go, he’d never actually been in Vauxhall Cross beyond the one time he’d met with Mycroft while he was trying to find Sherlock. He decided to turn right.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The Prime Minister stood at attention as the Queen entered the room. He began to panic slightly as he bowed, her piercing eyes never leaving his face. She sat and motioned for him to sit. She pulled out a thick parcel of papers from her case and placed them on the table.  
“James, you have some explaining to do. I’m well aware of what’s going on.”  
James gulped and sent a quick prayer to whomever was listening as he attempted to figure out a way to tell the Queen of England that her favorite envoy was missing and presumed dead.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Anthea paced as she waited for the fallout from the man in the vents. She groaned and realized that there was no surveillance in the ductwork, a problem that would need to be quickly rectified. She had no way of knowing that in a little less than an hour everything would fall into place, both literally and figuratively.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Greg paused and lay his forehead on the cool metal of the duct resting for a second. He had come to a second crossroad and decided to go left. He had reached the end of the duct and he groaned as he looked over the edge of the elevator shaft. An elevator whizzed past him and he bit back a curse as it narrowly missed his face.  
“Come out to the coast, we'll get together, have a few laughs...” Greg giggles grimly and shimmies back into the duct disappearing from sight.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The queen grimly sips a cup of tea as she watches James Montague panic before her. She was not typically the type of person to enjoy watching a minion squirm, but after all Mycroft had made that whole business in Las Vegas die a quiet death when Harry had decided to have a holiday, she couldn’t just leave him to die. Besides she reasoned silently, that whole business with Candy had to be repaid. Her Majesty set the cup of tea on the table, gracefully avoiding the tinkle of china on hardwood and folded her hands waiting silently for James to begin stammering out his apology.   
James never got a chance as a menacing creak from the ceiling startled them both. In a cloud of dust and drywall Greg fell through the ceiling and landed, stunned, on the floor. The Prime Minister stared at the mess in shock. The Queen glanced at the strange man in the pile of plaster then at James and did something that shocked them both. She laughed.  
Greg slowly pulled himself to his feet groaning as he straightened up his neck and back cracking. He turned and froze as the shocked face of the British Prime Minister and the elated face of the Queen herself gazed at him. He bowed to the queen then gulped.  
“Sorry for the mess, your Majesty,” Greg toed the carpet shyly, “I didn’t know the ductwork would give way. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing for sure.”  
The Queen glanced at the panicked Prime Minister and rolled her eyes, “James, sit. You,” she said motioning towards Greg, “come here.”  
Greg made his way towards the Queen bowing again as he got close. He stood with his head bowed in shame (he had just fallen through the ceiling of Vauxhall Cross into a private meeting between the Prime Minister and the Queen, after all) and waited.


	5. All the Queen's Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is Greg to do when he finds himself face to face with the Queen?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this has taken me so long to post! I'm not abandoning this story but I'm in the middle of working at a summer camp (that has no wireless internet), then I'm going directly to school the day after that ends. I will keep writing but the pace won't pick up until Christmas at the earliest!

The Queen motioned to Greg to stand and raised an eyebrow, “Should I be concerned for my life, young man?”

Greg bit back a grin at the ‘young man comment,’ but frowned, “No, your majesty, I’m afraid I’m just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m supposed to be finding my way out of the building.”

The Queen gave Greg a look that clearly stated ‘you’ve got to be kidding me’ before sedately asking, “and you chose to use the duct work rather than the door?”

Greg stifled a chuckle, “well, Your Majesty, it’s not quite that simple. I’m supposed to be running the gauntlet.”

“Ah,” the Queen sighed, “James, you told me the gauntlet was a hypothetical exercise.  It would do us no good to have our agents injured.”

James sighed softly, “as far as I was aware it was hypothetical. It’s all Mycroft Holmes’ fault if it’s up and running.”

The Queen frowned, “if Mycroft believes it is necessary then it is.”

Greg glanced between the Prime Minister and the Queen noting the tension, “Of course you’d know Mycroft.”

The Queen looked at Lestrade askance, “Why do you know him?”

Greg shrugged, “that’s why I’m running the gauntlet.”

The Queen frowned, “sit and tell me exactly what is going on.”

           Greg glanced at the ornate chaise lounge and shrugged internally, who was he to argue with the Queen? Greg sat and took a deep breath ready to begin telling the tale of the missing emissary when the Prime Minister handed him a cup of tea.  Greg paused for a second, taken aback.  
            "Thank you." The Prime Minister nodded silently glaring at the back of Greg's head as he took the high backed chair behind him.  The Queen motioned for Greg to begin the story.  
"Sorry, your highness.  It started with a text message to John Watson.  Apparently Mycroft knew that Sherlock would ignore him but John would at least send the message on. " Greg settled into the chair and continued the story.  "And, now I'm supposed to get out of the building sight unseen to get past the Gauntlet." Greg paused for a moment considering, "although, all things considered it wasn't that hard to get this far.  I do apologize for crashing your meeting, though."  
            The Queen waved the excuse away and looked at Greg shrewdly, " do you, Detective Inspector Lestrade believe you can return Mycroft Homes to England?"  
            Greg shrugged, " I'm less obviously governmental but I have much of the same training.  I realize that my knowledge of Russian is an asset but I'll need some sort of in or the people holding Mycroft will know something is suspicious."  
            The Queen nodded, "James, call Michael and see if we can't get something done about a history for the DI. I know they're playing war games in the region."  
            The Prime Minister choked on his tea, "how do you know about the war games? That's top secret!" James glanced around the room guiltily as Greg tried not to laugh and the Queen huffed and nearly rolled her eyes.  
            "I know people, my dear James. And, they tell me things,"  
Greg bit back a chuckle thinking he'd have to tell Mycroft about the interaction then he sobered remembering the task that lay ahead.  "Ma'am thank you for your time, but if it's all the same to you shouldn't I be going?"  
            The Queen gazed sedately at Greg, calculating, "dust yourself off, Detective Inspector, you need to finish the gauntlet, after all.  James, call Hobbes."

James stood and hurried to the door.  He returned with a tall man wearing a black fitted suit, earpiece, and dark sunglasses.  The man glanced curiously at Greg then stood at attention as the Queen addressed him, "Hobbes, will you please find somewhere to switch clothes with DI Lestrade?"  
            Hobbes nodded and walked towards the door he entered, Greg followed him silently wondering what exactly was going on.  
            James gazed after the men as the door closed. "What is going on?" he asked wearily.  "Had I known how much effort this would be I would have thrown the election."  
            The Queen turned to him and regarded him coolly, "I do wish you would have if you're going to do nothing but complain. Perhaps I can replace you if it's really too much trouble."  The Queen turned back to the door as it opened revealing Greg wearing the black suit and sunglasses with an earpiece.  Hobbes had put Greg’s dusty clothes on and his bright blonde hair gave him a similar look to Greg.  The Queen smiled deviously and looked towards Hobbes.  
            "Hobbes, you are to wait five minutes then attempt to exit the building while causing as much havoc as possible.  DI Lestrade you will accompany me along with my security until you have successfully exited the building."  
            Greg nodded silently, in awe of the Queen, who knew she was so excited to pull one over on mi6?  
            The Queen glanced at James disdainfully, "run the country until the election, if you can, if you can’t, God help you."  
            James’ eyes went wide and he nodded silently. The other three security guards entered the room and formed a protective perimeter around the Queen as she spryly walked out the door, Greg falling into formation behind her.  
  
  
            Across the building Anthea’s annoyance was rapidly growing as she scanned the security cameras, she goggled as she saw the prime minister staring at the doorway as the Queen walked out security in tow.  She swore softly, checked her suit and hurried out the door.  
  
            Hobbes glanced at his watch, and stared silently at the Prime Minister as he paced back and forth muttering to himself.  Hobbes grinned to himself keeping his face neutral; apparently the Prime Minister wasn't as tough as he would have everyone believe if he was afraid of the Queen.  Hobbes’ watch beeped the hour and he turned towards the door and hurried down the hallway.  Rather than turning towards the stairs he turned towards the elevator and stepped inside.  He grinned to himself as he kept his face concealed from the video camera.  He reached towards the panel on the wall of the lift and flipped a switch stopping the lift between floors.  He reached up to the upper panel of the elevator and moved it out of the way casually lifting himself up from the floor to the top of the elevator as he disappeared from sight.  
  
            Anthea stopped in the lobby waiting as the Queen entered.  The Queen stopped and motioned Anthea forward. "Any news yet?"  
            Anthea shook her head and glanced at the security detail, something was different, she noticed the shorter man at the back and sighed internally, the Queen certainly kept her on her toes, "new security?  Has he been vetted your majesty?"

The Queen smiled to herself, this was too perfect, " yes, he has, and he also comes highly recommended, apparently Mycroft Holmes himself is aware of him."  
Anthea nodded, appeased, and glanced at the new guard noticing how the suit was snugly fit against his thighs and bum.  She held back a comment and cleared her throat softly preparing to welcome him to the elite group when her mouth dropped open as her quarry sprinted across the balcony behind them.  Following the sprinting DI was part of Vauxhall Cross' security force and part of MI6 shouting after him to stop, she swore loudly and apologizing quickly sprinted away after them. The Queen smiled and continued out the door, the real Greg Lestrade following her sedately.  
  
Greg cleared the doors at the front of the building and sighed.  The Queen turned to him and paused, "since Hobbes is currently unavailable you will take his place for the moment."  
Greg nodded, shaking his head, what the hell had he gotten himself into?  The Queen slid into the back of the waiting car and Greg silently closed the door following the rest of her security team to a second car.  They slid into the back seat and Greg silently regarded one of the most elite security teams in the world.  


Hobbes grinned to himself as he hurried into a blind corner where there was an air duct. He shimmied into the duct and got the grate closed as his followers hurried into the hallway.  He bit back a laugh as he heard them swearing loudly.  They quieted as a suited woman with a glare on her face stalked up to them.

"Where the hell is he?" the group immediately began making excuses and the woman put her hand up. "Shut up," she said with a dangerous edge to her voice, "find him, NOW!" 

The group dispersed quickly and she sighed, the dangerous edge falling away to reveal an exhausted woman who looked like she had lost her best friend.  Hobbes stayed silent as she sighed deeply and leaned against the wall for a second.  She gathered herself and clearing her throat and cracking her neck she pulled her shaken defenses up and stalked out of the hallway.  Hobbes silently watched her leave and he finally allowed himself to grin, he was going to enjoy getting caught.  


Three thousand miles away Mycroft gazed feverishly towards the ceiling of his cell the rattling in his tight, aching chest echoing with each breath.  His captors had taken the day off but the icy wind heralding a cold night echoed around the building the freezing drafts from the empty cracks around the window bathed his feverish body.  He hummed nonsensically as the wind blew; deep in the recesses of his mind library he wondered why he was humming "Let It Go” but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.  As he gazed up towards the dark ceiling he did something that he hadn’t done in many years, he prayed.  


On the other side of tithe Atlantic Michael Connors' phone rang, he groaned to himself as he heard the nosily voice of the British Prime Minister.  He rolled his eyes at the accent wondering if it was legitimate or an act.

"Director Connors, this is James Montague, I need your help."

Connors did roll his eyes then as he listened to the request on behalf of the British government. A secret identity for a police officer, so secret that it was eyes only. Connors shook his head and logged into his computer quickly creating a profile that fit the criminal the Prime Minister was looking for, the basic profile coming together quickly for Aleksi Resnikov, a former Chechen rebel that was working with the small paramilitary groups based out of the area.  He groaned internally as he heard that the prime minister wanted to put this guy on the Interpol most wanted list.  The prime minister instructed him to put a shoot to kill order on the file, flagging it with immigration and all the local police forces in Europe.  Connors was stunned.

"Absolutely not, prime minister!  An arrest warrant and notification that he is armed and dangerous is as far as I am willing to push this insane charade. If you want to kill him you’ll have tot do it yourself." Michael Connors then did something he never would have believed himself capable of.  He hung up on the prime minister of Great Britain.  


"Hello? Hello?" James slammed the phone into its cradle and glared at it.  At least he got an arrest on sight order even if the kill on sight was refused.  He stood and paced the events of the day swirling through his head.  He frowned and flopped into his chair, his 3,000 pound suit rumpling unforgivably under him.  He stared into space plotting the demise of one Gregory Lestrade and by proxy Mycroft Holmes.  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a reference to "Orange is the New Black" brownie points to anyone who can find it!


	6. Nothing is ever easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the going gets tough, the tough get going...

Greg glanced towards the faces of the silent men in the back of the SUV. He sighed internally and shifted minutely, his borrowed trousers a little tight through the thighs. The guy next to him chuckled quietly.  
“Borrowed togs never fit as well as they should, name’s Liam.” He held out his hand and Greg awkwardly shook it, shrugging.  
“Well, you do what you have to.” Liam nodded pensively then turned to him.  
“When you meet the dogs, make sure they like you. That’s more important than anything else you’ll do here today. I know what’s going on and if you can get Holmes back you will be able to do anything you want for the rest of your life.”  
Greg’s eyebrow hit his hairline, “how do you know what’s going on?”  
Liam shrugged, “I know people. Just remember, make sure the dogs like you.”

The line of SUVs pulled into the gated drive at Buckingham Palace and Greg cleared his throat nervously. The men climbed out, their posture relaxed but alert. Greg scanned the skyline around him frowning as a quick glint of light blinded him. Eyes darting he hurried to the front of the pack and stepped next to the Queen who had stopped to wave at the people pressing against the fence.  
“Your Majesty, we need to get you inside.” His voice was tight with nerves as he scanned the sky around the palace proper again. The other security officers caught up with them and casually stood as a barrier between the woman and the gawkers. Without warning the rear SUV exploded, flames shooting up from the ruptured gas tank. Greg cursed as the shockwave knocked him into the petite woman in front of him and to the ground. He instinctively covered her body with his and flinched as the second SUV exploded in a massive fireball a hail of gunfire following the second explosion. Not thinking about the repercussions, Greg stood, grabbed Her Majesty, slung her over his shoulder and sprinted towards the pillared entryway of the castle. The door miraculously opened and he hurried through it, quickly setting the Queen on the ground and taking a hasty step back as what looked to be multiple MI5 agents sprang into action grabbing Greg then forcing him to the floor on his knees.  
The Queen glared at the man holding the gun on Greg, “James, he saved my life, put that away.”  
The MI5 agent looked at Greg with a glare then slowly put his gun back into the holster under his jacket. Greg sighed and stayed still as a wiggle of Corgis hurried to investigate him. He grinned and petted them, not minding much as they jumped all over him, one going so far as to attempt to climb up his back. The Queen bit back a smile and turned to walk deeper into the castle calling over her shoulder, “don’t miss your flight Detective Inspector.”  
Greg grinned and turned to look out the window wondering how that was going to happen. There were the burning hulks of 2 SUVs in the driveway and a gaggle of agents milling around him. The one with the gun, James, he thought, turned to walk deeper into the palace. Greg stood in the entry feeling slightly out of his depth, James turned, “hey, come on. You’ve got a flight to catch.”  
Greg followed him and they hurried into the opulent surroundings and out of sight.

***

Greg sat in the leather seat in the private jet staring pensively out the window. Wiggins sat across from him reading a graphic novel of all things. Greg picked up the glass in front of him and swirled the ice water around absently.  
People may think that Greg was an idiot, and there were times they’d be right, but at this moment swirling around in his head were the complex details of the mission in English and Russian with a bit of French thrown in to keep things interesting. He glanced at his watch and began to calculate how much time he would need to get Mycroft out. He finally narrowed it down to a twenty four hour period and pulled out the British diplomatic passport. He placed it on the table and pulled the folder to him. It would take a four hour journey to get to the air base after they landed. Greg looked at the images of the base and frowned.  
“Wiggins, why aren’t we approaching from the east and landing at the base? Fake an engine problem and give me enough time to get out of sight/out of mind?” He pushed the files to Wiggins who picked them up. “Then you and the pilots could hike to the A195 where I’m sure someone in country is friendly to us, get the ‘parts’ and work on fixing the plane. I’d wait until dark and work my way back towards the administration buildings to find Mycroft.”  
Wiggins peered at Greg over the top of the file folder, “why did you settle for policing? You could have had an amazing career with MI-6.”  
Greg shrugged, “I like helping people. There’s an immediacy with being a copper that you don’t get as a spy.”  
A crackling voice came over the PA system, “gentlemen, we’re fifteen minutes out.” Greg stood and moved towards the back of the plane. He quickly stripped off his shirt and trousers and began pulling on the black tactical gear in the back of the plane.   
Behind him Wiggins hurried to the cockpit and clued the pilots into the plan. They glanced at each other and nodded slowly.  
No one knew it at the time but this split second decision would make all the difference in the world.


	7. Once Upon a Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's mind library. (Mindbrary?)

Mycroft stared at the fading light on the ceiling of his makeshift cell. He tried to gather the strength to move but almost immediately gave up when he realized that if his arms wouldn’t hold his weight, his legs were unlikely to be more cooperative. He retreated into his mind and curled up in the chair in front of the roaring fire, his exterior body temperature dropping dangerously low for someone with pneumonia but the image in his mind warm enough to trick him for at least a little while.  
In the distance he could hear people shouting in Russian and doors slamming. Mycroft ignored them, they weren’t happening in his cozy library after all, so they didn’t really matter. His ears perked up when he heard the first gunshot. He sat up from the sofa where he was reclined under a thick blanket and considered his options, he could investigate, but having no weapon or body armour that seemed like a suicide mission. He shrugged, again, not happening in his sanctuary, so it didn’t really bother him. There were five more gunshots in quick succession then there was silence.  
Mycroft reached for his glass of port and took a bracing sip as he opened the book of poetry on his lap. His eyes skimmed over the words and he smiled as he relished the moment of peace. Suddenly there was a gusty draft of air that entered through the chimney. He shuddered and pulled the blanket up towards his neck, the book of poetry falling from his now ice-cold fingers. The fire danced in the fireplace, the wind nearly extinguishing it.  
Mycroft closed his eyes as his forehead suddenly warmed and he sighed as his eyes fell closed. The glass of port on the side table began rattling as the library tilted.  
“Earthquake?” Mycroft thought, he didn’t believe that England had many earthquakes, but perhaps it was something he should research more in depth. As he was pondering the merits of reaching for a book about tectonic geography the library shook again, his eyes flew open, and the fire flickered, another icy draft rushing down the chimney.  
Without warning the shelf on the right of the fireplace began to sway, nearly falling to the ground. Mycroft stood and steadied it, but wasn’t quite fast enough to keep the left bookcase upright. There was another rocking shift and wild gust of air down the chimney that caused the windows to creak and the lights to die.  
It was just the embers of the fire now, Mycroft knew that something was very wrong and that he needed to protect himself. He hurried towards the fire place and knelt down to put another log on the fire attempting to get the embers to reignite the fire, he wasn’t prepared for the backdraft that slammed into his face from the chimney as the windows in the room shattered and the fire roared knocking him backwards into the low coffee table.  
He never felt the blissful warmth envelop him as he faded out of consciousness, but he could have sworn someone said something about cake.


	8. The First Rule of Fight Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's rescue.
> 
> And in case anyone wants to see Greg in tactical gear, http://parivash.weebly.com/work.html
> 
> Because, I have far too much free time and access to photoshop...

Greg swore as the plane rolled to a stop. The half light of the arctic winter made it difficult to see much of anything but he knew that there wasn’t much time for him to disappear. He looked out the door of the plane and dropped to the ground disappearing into the uncut prairie grass at the edge of the air strip. Seconds later a three angry Russians in a jeep pulled to a stop next to the plane screaming at Wiggins. 

Greg ignored them and began to creep east towards the administration buildings. The screaming behind him quieting quickly as he found a frozen stream that let him straight east, the pounding of his thermal boots muffled by the Arctic wind. Greg ran for what seemed like forever, but was actually about 5 km before he turned towards the north. He stopped for a second and looked back towards the plane, relieved to see that no one had noticed his escape and he quickly turned to run across the old air strip. The air strip was plowed, which he thought was odd, but he thanked the Lord for small mercies and ran across it towards the dark hulks in the distance that were the Administration buildings and barracks.  


After a mere 1200 metres Greg found himself in the shadow of the administration building. He slowly worked his way around the outside of the building until he found both the entrance and the fuse box. He stealthly opened the fuse box and pulled the main fuse. There were yells in Russian and he quickly pulled out a kukri knife and cut the conduit at the ground, hopefully that would keep them occupied long enough for Greg to get inside unnoticed.  
Greg hurried around the side of be building as the door behind him swung open and bounced off the wall, the voices of two irate Russians echoed through the frigid air. 

Greg grinned and found the back door scoffing when it was open, these idiots didn’t even think about security.  
Greg hurried inside, the light of a candle in the distance the only light in the area which made his night vision goggles the perfect accessory. Greg inched his way down the hall towards the light and was stunned momentarily as a door opened directly across from him. A guard dressed in combat boots, ratty jeans and a jean jacket stopped and stared. Greg pulled his silenced Walther out and ended him before he made a sound.  
He reached the outside of the lighted area and silently observed the other men. There were three sitting griping in Russian about not having lights, while Greg personally thought it was going to be the lack of heat that they would come to regret. One man stood and glanced towards the hallway where Greg had come asking, “where is Sergi?”  


The other men didn’t answer and before anyone knew what was happening Greg had popped off three shots, hitting each man square in the forehead. Then, he pressed himself back into the nook of the door and stared towards the heavy metal door at the end of the opposite side of the hallway. The two men that had been outside attempting to fix the unfixable fuse box hurried in swearing as they tried to work feeling back into their fingers. They never saw the shots coming as Greg double tapped each one.  


Greg hurried towards the metal door at the end of the long hallway, once there he turned to scan behind him the building silent and still. He opened the door, the icy wind in the room beyond stealing his breath through the thick balaclava he wore. Laying on the hard concrete floor of the makeshift cell was Mycroft, his clothes tattered and the skin of his extremities a light blue.  
Greg pulled off a glove and put his hand on Mycroft’s forehead, the skin was cold but there was an underlying fever burning through the younger man’s body.  


Greg’s head shot up at the sound of stomping boots and screaming in Russian from down the hall. He hurried across the room and stood in a nook behind the doorway. It was mere seconds later when three huge Russian men stormed through the open door. They stopped short as they saw no one other than their prisoner on the floor. Greg stepped behind them and double tapped each in the back of the skull. They fell silently, the one nearest to him was wearing a massive coat with a fur lined hood. Greg shrugged and figured he’d already killed him, what was a little petty theft to go along with it. He took the dead man’s coat and slowly worked it over Mycroft’s arms then gently turned him to his front, zipping the coat up the back. He grunted as he picked Mycroft up from the ground swearing as he nearly dropped him, for a lanky man he was heavy.  


Greg cheered internally when he hurried out the door and saw the jeep sitting abandoned in front of the administration building. He hurried towards the passenger side and unceremoniously placed Mycroft in the seat, grabbing the roll bar he pulled himself up and into the rear seat, sliding into the driver’s seat. Mycroft groaned and Greg grinned, “hold on, cupcake!”  
Greg floored the gas pedal of the jeep and they rocketed out of the tiny area in front of the building back towards the small plane.


	9. The Next Day...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is home. So is Greg. So, why doesn't that mean happily ever after?

The first thing Mycroft realized was that he was warm. A little too warm by all accounts, then it was too much and he was batting at the blankets covering him. The sudden activity made him gasp for breath, his chest rattling like a cat purring, he frowned at himself, clearly he was drugged. His eyes opened and he squinted through the twilight light spilling in through the window, it was obvious he was supposed to be sleeping, but he glanced around and saw an IV stand with multiple bags hanging on it. He studied it for a moment then realized one was saline, and the other two were either painkillers or antibiotics and he sighed, nearly growling as ‘you sound like a cat’ echoed through his skull. He turned his head to look the other way and was shocked to see Greg Lestrade sleeping in the reclining chair next to his bed. He had a massive parka covering him like a blanket and was clearly in desperate need of the sleep he was getting. 

Mycroft had never really pondered Greg Lestrade, but seeing as he had nothing but time now, he decided that pondering him would be as good a use for it as any. He sank into his mind palace avoiding the main atrium for the moment, neither mental energy nor desire to attempt to fix it and slowly made his way to the second floor balcony. He glanced down at the charred remains of the first floor of his library and sighed, it would take a lot of… no, significant work to fix it. He turned and hurried to the second floor atrium and through to what looked like a cozy office off the library rotunda. Inside there was a small fireplace, a chair, and a single bookcase with binders full of papers. He pulled out the binder labeled “Greg Lestrade” and began leafing through it. 

Greg woke and stretched the vertebrae in his neck and back cracking. He sighed and stood turning to look out the window into the darkness, the skyline of London stretching out in front of him. He glanced at his watch and grimaced, it was midnight and his first day back at the yard was less than 8 hours away. He stood, checked on Mycroft then quietly walked out of the room closing the door behind himself. 

Mycroft read the information in the binder and committed it to memory (so to speak.) Greg was a Cancer, which fit his need to be the white knight Mycroft thought idly. He also liked Top Gear and Doctor Who. Mycroft scoffed to himself, Doctor Who really hadn’t been the same since David Tennant left, pity. He read about the summers in France with his father’s family and the early childhood in Russia. Mycroft stopped for a second to ponder the likelihood that Greg was actually working for the government then shook his head, he of all people would know if Greg Lestrade worked for the government. 

Mycroft jumped back to awareness as the door to his room slid closed. The nurse smiled as she checked his IV levels. 

“It’s good to see you awake, we were worried for a while.” She said softly. 

Mycroft took a breath to speak and ended up coughing for what seemed like forever. The nurse grinned sympathetically, “yes, pneumonia sucks for everyone.” 

Mycroft gave her a half-hearted glare and pointed to the chair as he tried to get his breathing under control. The nurse glanced to the now empty chair and nodded, “he said he had to work tomorrow, he went home to get some sleep.” 

Mycroft nodded then pointedly closed his eyes and settled back into the pillows, as far as he could, and attempted to sleep. He got suspicious as he almost instantly drifted to sleep, he hated morphine. 

What neither the nurse or Mycroft knew was Greg never made it home that night, and his bosses had been notified that he would be loaned to the government indefinitely. It didn’t come from Mycroft’s office, but it had the signature of the Prime Minister so they took it at it’s face value. 

Greg Lestrade made it home. He was dead asleep, the clock read 4:52 am. By 4:54 AM the room was empty and his apartment was locked.


	10. I believe in Sherlock Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy the surprise at the end, I know I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Where does Greg wake up, and who is that mysterious guard?

Greg groaned. He opened his eyes to see beige cinderblock directly in front of his nose. He double checked his mental calendar and turned over, the far wall was far nearer than it should have been. Greg shot upright. To his horror all he saw were the bars in front of him. He shot to his feet, panic welling in his stomach as he looked out the door to see the massive rectangular multi-floor room with chain link fence between the black uprights. He’d only been here once before after a massive riot had injured 14 guards and he had been tapped to assist in the lockdown efforts. He slunk to the back of his cell sitting between end of the bed and the far wall, wondering what the hell was going on. 

The dark haired bearded guard glanced into the window and frowned, this new prisoner that had been brought in seemed to be missing. He looked again, studying the cell and noticed two feet sticking out from behind the bed. He pounded on the door, “Reznikov! On your feet!” 

Greg glanced at the door and slowly pulled himself to his feet. He nervously shuffled to the middle of what he now knew was his cell and stood hands bared in the middle of the floor his head bowed, face hidden. 

The guard glanced into the cell skeptically, what prisoner would stand like that, he looked like a cop. He shrugged and opened the cell door motioning Greg towards the opposite end of the block, he turned to led the next man out of his cell missing the curious glance from ‘Reznikov.’ 

Greg descended the stairs and glanced around nervously the other prisoners glaring at him suspiciously. Greg looked at the clock and noticed that it was already late afternoon. He stayed close to the wall attempting to remain inconspicuous which was impossible since he was the ‘new one.’ He steeled himself as he saw a massive man with a taqiyah striding towards him. Greg watched him warily but still wasn’t prepared for the man to lunge at him, grabbing the collar of his his standard issue prison uniform. 

Greg fought, harder than he’d ever fought in his life until two guards pulled them apart. Greg stood silently, his uniform top in shreds and blood running down his face as the giant taqiyah wearing man was dragged away spitting vitriol in Arabic. 

The guard began to drag Greg in the same direction, stopping in shock when Greg said, “I won’t fight.” The guard kept ahold of his arm but released Greg otherwise and Greg readjusted what was left of his top, stopping with an apology to the guard as he stripped it off revealing a massive tattooed sleeve on one arm and other tattoos running down his chest. In the distance the chatter of the men quickly rose to a dull roar at the sight of his tattoos. The epaulette decorating one shoulder, a rose twining from that into a complex spider web with a spider sporting the face of a skull on his bicep. On his chest was an abstract image of what looked like an orthodox cross inside a detailed Celtic diamond. The chattering in the common room intensified as the massive image of the Madonna surrounding the St. Basil’s Cathedral was revealed on his back as he walked away. 

Greg cringed internally, those stupid tattoos, he’d tried to get them covered over the years with other things, but some images were just too big to change. He sighed and preceded the guard to the infirmary, absently wiping the blood from his chin. 

The infirmary was empty, all the tools and drugs locked behind mesh screens with locks. Greg sat on a small cot staring into the distance. The guard broke the silence, “only here for a day and already in the infirmary? I think that’s some kind of record.” 

Greg shrugged, “explain the timetable to me. Don’t want to miss anything.” 

Greg listened absently as the guard recited the time table. His ears perked up as he heard the word ‘lawyer.’ 

“I’d like to talk to my lawyer. How do I request it?” Greg asked as a doctor shuffled in looking miserable both because he had what sounded like the worst head cold ever, and because he was at work in spite of it. 

The Doctor examined Greg and snapped on a pair of gloves, he palpitated Greg’s bruised cheeks and pulled down his lip to examine the inside of his mouth. He looked at him as he took the gloves off, “you’re going to be fine. The blood is from your nose, not broken, just bloody. Your teeth look fine and you’re not injured elsewhere, right.?” 

Greg nodded and slid from the elevated cot as the guard motioned for him to do so, “thanks, doc.” 

The Doctor looked after him, shocked, as Greg shuffled out of the room following the guard. 

The cell block was mostly quiet, only a few prisoners still clanking against their bars, the guards at the other end of the room were shouting for quiet. His personal cell block guard walked past, Greg hurried to catch his attention pounding on the inside of his metal door, “hey, I wanted to ask a couple things, that ok, sir?” Greg stepped back from the door and waited, the small hatch in the door opened. 

The guard had just gotten back onto the floor after finding out that he had to pull a double, only because the guy after him decided it was a better idea to go out drinking than it was to come to work. He was irritable but stopped cold when he heard pounding on the inside of the isolation cell door and someone calling him ‘sir.’ 

Greg stepped towards the door, “I wanted to know how to request a meeting with my lawyer.” 

The guard stopped, “You can do that tomorrow. 

Greg shrugs, “I need to talk to my lawyer, now! I’m not supposed to be here.” 

The guard peered into the isolation cell and stared at Greg in abject shock, sputtering for a moment until he fell silent. “You can call tomorrow when everyone else does.” 

Greg laid his forehead against the door, “but, I don’t know who my lawyer is.” 

The guard stepped away from the door closing the hatch the hastily turned back to the door and reopened it. “I’ll find out for you, I’ll get to the bottom of it, sir. I know just who to ask” 

Greg stepped back and looked at the door, very confused, “who are you?” 

The hatch slid closed and Greg stared at it in silence for a minute then curled up on the hard cot in his cell. He had no way of knowing it but the wheels of his rescue were already in motion as the guard, who was supposed to work a double shift, went to his superior officer and managed to puke on the floor in front of his shoes. His superior officer grimaced and told him to get out. 

The guard did, and as soon as he was in the parking lot, he broke into a run, because despite everything that had happened, Phillip Anderson still believed in Sherlock Holmes.


	11. I Told You So.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when Sherlock and John are alerted to the strange goings on at HMP Belmarsh?

Greg sighed and reclined on the cot in his cell. The announcement for lights out echoed through the block moments before the lights were turned off. Greg pulled himself into the corner of his cot and stared at the ceiling attempting to figure out just how he was in HMP Belmarsh and why they thought his name was Reznikov. ***** 

Philip Anderson stared up at the knocker below the dull brass 221 and debated about actually knocking. He had no way of knowing it, but John saw him from upstairs and Sherlock was already pitching a fit like a moody toddler. John opened the transom and shouted down to him. 

“If you’re coming up, come up so Sherlock can throw you out. If not, go away so he’ll stop complaining!” 

Anderson grimaced to himself, that sounded a lot like Sherlock. He opened the door and slowly climbed the stairs. He knocked at the closed door to 221 B and waited with baited breath. The door swung open and Sherlock didn’t let him get into the flat before pointing imperiously towards the door. 

Anderson stopped, this was too important to let Sherlock kick him out. He stepped into the flat and saw the ‘client chair.’ He resolutely strode towards it and sat ignoring Sherlock’s incensed gazed and John’s half amused/half exasperated one. John sat in his chair grabbing the writing tabled from the end table next to him and motioned with his head for Sherlock to sit down. Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes. Anderson stared ahead, gazing into the fire place without seeing the silently shouted conversation between John and Sherlock. Finally, with another epic eye roll that looked painful Sherlock sat primly in his chair smugly glaring at John before turning a truly evil glare towards Anderson. 

“What…” Sherlock started. 

“Greg Lestrade is in solitary confinement at HMP Belmarsh as a prisoner named Reznikov. He hasn’t seen a lawyer and he’s at serious risk of being killed because he’s responsible for putting most of the prisoners in the block there.” 

John glanced at Sherlock who was frowning, intrigued but fighting with every ounce of his being to remain impassive. John pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, “how do you know, Anderson?” 

Anderson shot a look at John eerily reminiscent of Sherlock’s “dear God, what is it like in your funny little heads” look (™) and said acidly, “even I need to have a job to survive. I only realized it was him tonight and I came here right away.” 

John scribbled a note on the tablet and looked at Sherlock but asked Anderson, “do you know why he’s there?” 

Anderson shook his head wearily, “it doesn’t matter at a place like that. The governor knows, but he’s not going to tell me anything.” 

Sherlock, now completely ignoring the conversation, is typing rapidly on a laptop, John glares. “Sherlock, why are you using my laptop?” 

Sherlock shrugs, “Can’t find my charger.” John sighs but Sherlock cuts him off, “Aleksi Resnikov is a guest of HMP Belmarsh for being a suspected Russian paramilitary commander. There’s a shoot to kill order on him.” Sherlock looked up at John then typed frantically for a couple minutes, “John, Lestrade is supposed to be on vacation. There’s a note in his file that he’s been denoted as AWOL.” 

John shakes his head, “but, that doesn’t make sense.” 

Anderson jumps up, “that’s what I’ve been telling you from the start! Do something!” 

Sherlock shakes his head mournfully, “I don’t want to!” 

John looks at him askance with a firm set to his mouth, “Sherlock.” 

Sherlock huffs and pulls out his phone. “Fine, but you both owe me.” ******** 

Anthea glared silently at her phone, even beating Candy Crush wasn’t making her any less stressed. She glanced at Mycroft who was unconscious and grimaced at the tube down his throat. She sighed and decided to leave the room just to stretch her legs. As she strode towards the door Mycroft’s phone rang in her pocket. She groaned inwardly as the custom ringtone blared from the phone, it was Sherlock. 

“Yes.” She said flatly. 

“Why is Gregory Lestrade currently at her majesty’s pleasure in HMP Belmarsh?” 

Anthea almost tripped over her thousand pound heels, “what are you talking about?” 

Sherlock groaned, “as much as it pains me to say it, let me talk to Mycroft.” 

Anthea glared into space as she spat, “he can’t come to the phone right now, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock actually growled over the phone, “too attempting to steal the Queen’s chocolate biscuits, is he?” 

Anthea stopped and for a second debated chucking the phone into the bin. She refrained, she knew what kinds of people would have her head if she did that, “no, he’s currently unresponsive with a tube down his throat and may be in a coma. He hasn’t woken up long enough for the doctors to tell in the last two days.” ******** 

Sherlock sat in his chair silently, John didn’t know for sure but it looked like his knees gave out. John frowned when more information was not forthcoming. “Sherlock.” he prompted, “what’s going on?” 

Sherlock looked at John, puzzled, “Mycroft is in a coma, he has been for 2 days.” 

Anderson gasped, stricken, “that’s how long Greg has been at Belmarsh.” 

John scoffed, “you’re telling me that you think Greg, Greg Lestrade, Detective Inspector with Scotland Yard attempted an assassination of Mycroft Holmes?” 

Sherlock jumped to his feet, “it makes perfect sense, John. Lestrade had access and inside information. 

John sighed and rolled his eyes, “come here.” John didn’t give Sherlock the time to protest, he unbuttoned his cuffs and pulled up Sherlock’s sleeves. Sherlock fought him and pulled his arms away. 

“What are you doing?” Sherlock growled. 

John stepped nose to nose with Sherlock and growled back at him, “I’m checking for track marks, because if you think Greg attempted to assassinate Mycroft then you must be high. 

Anderson’s eyes flew back and forth between the two men like he was watching a tennis match. Sherlock’s forearms were clear of any track marks (“obviously, John”) and Sherlock stalked out of the room muttering. 

John stopped and sighed, “go home, Anderson. Do you work tomorrow?” 

Anderson nodded and stood, “all day and if I want, I’m sure I could probably work a double.” 

John nodded, “until we know what’s going on, do it. Right now you’re the only person standing between Greg and someone who wants him dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading my story! I hope you enjoy it, if you're still reading (after my crazed updating schedule) I'm happy you're here. If you'd like to drop me a line, I'd love to hear from you! Reviews = Love!!


	12. Solitary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's now up to Anderson of all people to watch Greg's back.

Mycroft peered into the darkness behind his eyelids. He knew he was asleep or unconscious, but he couldn’t figure out why. His eyes opened and he stared detachedly at the ceiling, he felt like he was a visitor in his body. It took all of about fifteen seconds before he realized there was a tube in his throat and he began choking on it. Mycroft was too panicked at the tube down his throat to register Anthea shouting for a doctor, or said doctor hurrying into the room. He did register the horrible sensation when the tube was pulled out and the spikes of pain in his chest as he began coughing, the virulent infection in his lungs protesting. After a bout of coughing that left him breathless and in pain he managed a sip of water and he gingerly laid back on the raised head of the hospital bed. Anthea stood staring silently wondering if he was going to stay awake this time. 

Mycroft sighed and when he spoke he noticed that he sounded a great deal like Steven Tyler and decided that he didn’t actually mind it. “If you’re going to say something, please, I give you leave to speak,” he said dryly to Anthea. 

Anthea lost her inscrutable mask at the comment and giggled, “welcome back, you gave us a quite a scare.” 

Mycroft shrugged, “that’s why they keep me around, I suppose. Cheap horror movie thrills.” 

Anthea raised an eyebrow and strode around the foot of the bed to look at the IV bags hanging over his head. Mycroft’s eyes followed her, an eyebrow raising, “I’m just wondering what you’re on, you’re usually not this, um, droll.” 

Mycroft rolled his eyes, “you have no idea how hard it is to be this funny.” His eyes scanned the room alighting on the heavy coat hanging on the back of the door. “Did I remember DI Lestrade being here?” 

Anthea looked at him warily for a moment knowing that he wasn’t going to like what he heard, and that the second Mycroft Holmes found out where DI Greg Lestrade was there would be hell to pay. “He may have been here before. I haven’t seen him in the last 2 days.” 

Mycroft sighed and tried to settle himself more comfortably, his back screaming at him for sleeping in a sub-par hospital bed, “when can I leave?” 

Anthea rolled her eyes, “whenever the doctor says you can leave, I’d estimate 2 days.” 

Mycroft hummed vacantly glancing at Anthea sharply, “make reservations for whatever the next day is, I’d like to thank DI Lestrade.” 

Anthea cringed inwardly, “it may be a bit more complicated than that, sir.” 

The sound of a shattering cellphone echoed down the hallway, the doctor on duty that was supposed to check Mycroft’s vitals executing a nearly comical about face as he heard it figuring that another cup of tea wouldn’t be a bad idea. 

**** 

Greg stared listlessly at the ceiling, he’d been in jail for 86 hours and the guards had stopped letting him out of his solitary cell after the third attempt on him. Greg shrugged and winced when he jostled his still tender ribs, courtesy of the Piranhas who had jumped him the previous day in the exercise yard. He sighed and pondered the consequences he’d get for slugging one of the men who had attacked him with a 10 kg dumbell in his hand. He idly wondered if the guy would get out of the infirmary any time soon, he was pretty sure he’d broken at least a couple ribs. 

The door to his cell crashed open and Greg was roughly pulled to his feet, amazement stopping his steps as he recognized Anderson in the prison uniform. There were two other guards outside the door and he realized with a sinking feeling that he knew where he was headed. 

Solitary. 

Greg was frogmarched down the causeway, other prisoners jeering at him and rattling their bars. He ignored them as best as he could, not fighting Anderson, who he usually could have dropped. The jeers and yells died away as they left the cell block and continued down indeterminate cinderblock hallways that were brightly lit with flickering fluorescent lights. 

Anderson was tasked with patting Greg down to make sure there was no hidden contraband on his person, his body angle just enough to hide Greg’s right side from the other guards. Greg tried not to react as he felt something stiff and pointed tucked into the waistband of his trousers. Anderson left Greg alone in the cell locking the door behind him and reopening the small hatch on the door. Greg dutifully stuck his shackled hands out the hatch and sighed in relief when the shackles were removed. The hatch was slid closed firmly the snick of the lock echoing through the room. Greg turned to survey the small isolation chamber noticing that it was basically the same as the cell he’d just left but there were fewer blankets, no pillow, and instead of a mattress there was simply a piece of steel attached to the wall on which he could sit. He looked up, surprised to see that the ceiling of the room was bare, for the first time since he’d arrived he was well and truly alone. 

Greg sighed and stretched, the stiff pointed thing in his waistband poking him in the hip. He pulled out a small folded piece of paper and opened it up. It was folded like a note someone would pass in school, the triangular piece created by folding the paper like a fan then folding it into triangles until it was small enough that a guard could pass it to a prisoner. He carefully unfolded it and blinked as the message was revealed. His knees gave out at the simple words on the paper; 

“Greg, I’ve been to see Sherlock, he had no idea you were here, neither did John. You’re marked as on vacation and AWOL from SY. Sherlock called Mycroft to help- but Mycroft is in a coma. You’re in solitary indefinitely, thanks for slugging the guy with the dumbbell. I convinced them to move me down here full time, hope being locked in a solitary cell will keep you safe, I’ll keep you updated. Keep your head down, Philip Anderson 

Greg chuckled softly, who knew it’d be Anderson of all people that would be watching his back in here. He laid down on the rock hard steel ‘bed’ (if you could call it that), “he could have given me a pillow.”

**Author's Note:**

> Upped the rating to T when I realized that some elements would scare small children. I hope you enjoy. Leave me a comment, they're like chocolate.


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